


Only A Moment Away

by 50mgSunshine



Series: Hamilton Sense8 AU [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Sense8 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sense8, Explicit Language, Gratuitous use of repetition, Homophobia, If you've seen Sense8 you'll know why, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of past abuse, Minor Character Death, Multi, No points for guessing who, Non-binary character, Polyamory, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Character, Transphobia, please, somebody stop me, srsly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-06 09:19:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10331423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/50mgSunshine/pseuds/50mgSunshine
Summary: When Martha Washington dies, eight more are born.Eight strangers, suddenly linked by a psychic connection, and suddenly in more danger than any of them can even begin to comprehend.Now, they must work together, or face a set of consequences that don't even bare thinking about.***This is a Sense8 AU, although you don't have to have seen Sense8 to understand this.





	1. Prologue - Birth

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So... this is my first fic that I'm actually posting. Don't worry if you haven't seen Sense8, it should make enough sense (ayyyy I'm so punny guys) on it's own, but if you're not sure feel free to ask me in the comments =) 
> 
> Also! TW for suicide in the prologue. I kind of lifted this scene from the show, although I've changed some stuff round. In general, I'm not really planning on staying too close to the plot of either show, although there will be similarities and parallels obviously. 
> 
> And with that, enjoy!

Her body shakes, tremors running the length of her prone form. Heat. Sweat. Pain. The sweet darkness of the abandoned church, pavement rough against her fingertips as she searches blindly.

Where is it? .

Where?

WHERE?

She gasps, another tremor, spasm, rippling cascade of agony that tears across every cell in her body. She knows she’s dying as her heels dig into the filthy grey mattress beneath her. She knows she’s dying as her spine contracts and juts her hips up into the air above her. Knows she’s dying as the not so silent tears cut paths in the grease and the dirt that cover her cheeks.

She knows he’s dying because he’s going to find her.

The moment passes, she’s left panting and sobbing with even less to give than the nothing she’d had before. She can’t do this, can’t take it, it must be now or it’s guaranteed it’ll be never.

A breeze cuts through the building, cuts through her. Brings with it the scent of the city beyond the walls - diesel and cheap alcohol. She wonders what it would be like to drink away one more night, surely one more night couldn’t hurt? She doesn’t want to… doesn’t want to…

At least, not when she’s alone.

To the side of the mattress, the gun glints in the pale moonlight that slides, in through the smashed window, across the rubble-stained floor.

Not alone.

“I’m here.” George’s hand rests on her arm, the mattress next to her dipping slightly beneath his weight, warm and steady and large.

Within seconds her willowy arms are wrapped around his thick, sturdy neck, her face is buried in his fuzzy blue sweater. She can’t help the moan that tears its way up through her throat. She knows she’s a mess, doesn’t care, George is used to it.

He rubs her back as her chest heaves.

“George.” She manages. Her voice sounds empty.

“I’m here, I love you.” he doesn’t sound strange, just holds her tighter when he triggers a fresh round of sobs.

“I-It hurts” it’s an understatement. It’s all she can manage.

“I know” his voice is smooth cream against her scalded nerves.

“I need- I need the m-medicine” she pants, dry lips brushing against his jumper, before a cry of pain rips its way free.

“I’m sorry my love,” he presses his lips to her matted hair, “There isn’t time.” She can tell his eyes are flitting towards the gun, she isn’t an idiot, “It has to be now.”

A whimper crawls up her throat, she pushes herself deeper into his embrace, “Don’t want to- not- not ready. N-not strong enough.”

“You are,” he assures her simply, “you’re the strongest.”

“They’ll… they’ll die” she breathes, “because of me.”

Tighter again, so that there’s no feeling that isn’t his arms around her as she shakes and cries, “He’ll hunt them either way.” he says, and then, “give them a chance.”

And then she knows what she must do.

_Aaron Burr’s hands cramp around the pen, as he scrawls, furious, glances up at the clock. Why did he wait so long to start this thing? He knows why. Won’t admit it._

_Thomas Jefferson, Superstar._

_The man’s blood is hot as it pumps, keeps pumping, all over Theodosia Prevost’s hands. She doesn’t panic, never panics. Inhabits the space between careful confidence and assured competence._

_John’s Laurens’ lips are chapped and dry, the girl with her hands down his pants doesn’t care as she mashes them into her own._

_Elizabeth Schuyler is everywhere because Elizabeth Schuyler’s sound is everywhere. She hopes the audience feels what she feels. Then she doesn’t have to hope because she sees their eyes._

_Alexander Hamilton doesn’t quite know what to feel about the sun, about the scent of brine. He can’t escape, he’s too old. He knows he needs to get used to it. Doesn’t want to._

_Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette has decided they don’t like the name Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette anymore. Tomorrow they will tell the world._

_Maria Reyn- Maria Lewis feels her ribs crack as they collide with the other woman’s foot. Boy was that going to hurt tomorrow. She grins._

“I see them-”

_Burr looks up, eyes widen, why is there a woman standing in the corner of his room? That’s it, he decides. He reasons that actual hallucinations are as good a reason for not handing in his paper to Professor Washington as any._

_There’s a woman in the audience, Thomas doesn’t have the luxury of prolonged eye contact, this number’s too important - but there’s something about her. He’s drawn in, can’t stop staring - he goofs_

_They load the man into the back of the ambulance, he’s out of it, but Theo keeps talking to him anyway. She knows that patients find it soothing, even if they don’t always remember. A woman watches from the side. Maybe she’s a relative? She doesn’t know, and it’s bad practice to ask. If she wanted to come along she’d come along of her own accord._

_“John,” Martha gasps, “John focus on me sweet thing, this isn’t going to work if you’re staring into space” he apologises to her. The woman’s gone by the time he looks back._

_There’s one woman, one woman who’s different, doesn’t seem to be hearing Eliza’s music. She works harder, tries to connect, fingers slipping lithely over switches and buttons, the music grows. frenetic, anxious, the rest of the audience is thrown, Eliza doesn’t care - why can’t she reach her?_

_Alex turns back to his work, logs the next shipment on paper. The computer’s down, Mr. Stevens keeps promising to get it fixed, still hasn’t done so. Alex knows this isn’t sustainable, knows that the various agencies on the mainland in charge of this kind of thing would shut them down faster than they could blink if they ever find out. When he sees her, he forgets about all that though, something about her makes him think that perhaps things might be okay after all._

_Laf, they decide, that’ll do nicely. Honestly, they don’t understand what all the fuss is about. Their fingers fly over the keyboard as they type up a quick tweet, a pre-emptive strike of sorts. They jump when they see the woman, finger twitches. And then they’ve accidentally told twitter that they love yoyo’s._

_Maria is swarmed by medical personnel within minutes. She insists she’s had worse, her coach tells her that’s not something she should be reminding her about right now. She groans, leaves them to their thing, flashes a cocky grin at the woman standing in the corner of the ring. Stupid spectators, was it so hard to stay put for, like, five seconds?_

“I see them” and then they’re surrounding her, her children, Aaron, Thomas, Theo, John, Eliza, Alex, Laf, Maria… “You’re beautiful…” she tells them, empty voice taken over by a kind of quiet reverence. They were going to hurt, but they had each other, and really, was there anything else anyone ever needed.

George is still holding her, and she feels herself relax, just for a moment, “you did it.” he says, radiating pride.

“George!” She gasps suddenly, reminded suddenly of where they are, “George, you have to- to protect them.”

“Of course, my love, with my life.” He assures her, stroked her hair to try and calm her.

“George, you don’t understand, I-” and then she stops, a white man is beside her. The King.

George must have felt her tense, “He’s here, isn’t he?” his hand pauses on her hair and he cups the back of her head, “You have to fight him, do you hear me? You have to fight.”

She whimpers, curls up closer, shakes her head vigorously “Can’t.”

“Yes, you ca-”

George is cut off, because The King is talking and that’s all she can hear, all she’ll ever be able to hear it feels like, “So here you are, this is how you’ve been hiding. This all seems unnecessarily painful.” she feels his sly smirk more than sees it, “you should have known I’d find you eventually, or did you forget our _arrangement?”_

“-listen to me, please! Whatever he’s saying to you, remember what he did,” she can only hear George because The King has stopped, wishes she could hear only George.

“Go…” she manages to tell him, voice strained.

“Is that George that you’re talking to?” The King enquires, “How delightful!” he chuckles, “Do tell him I look forward to meeting him.”

“Please!” She begs, tears herself out of his arms. He can’t be here for this, she knows this, but the knowledge is like a boulder in her stomach.

He cups her cheek, meets her eyes, “I love you. So, so much.” he tells her. He’s not crying, but he’s about to.

She musters a weak smile, “I love you.”

He takes her hand, and then he’s gone.

She takes the gun, grips it in shaking hands, raises it-

“Come now, we both know you won’t do it. You’re too weak.”

Tires screech outside.

Rain begins to fall through the holes in the roof.

She thinks of her children, young and innocent, in more danger than she’d wish upon anyone, but safe, because of her George.

George, who will be safe because of what she’s about to do.

The fire in her nervous system dies down, her body knows, understands why her mouth tastes like the barrel of a gun.

“You won’t do it.”

She thinks of George.

Her finger finds the trigger.

She thinks of George’s smile.

Her body slumps to the floor, and Martha Washington is dead


	2. Limbic Resonance - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron Burr has no clue what's going on.
> 
> This is unlikely to change any time soon.
> 
> Meanwhile, Thomas Jefferson reads The Economist, Theodosia becomes closely acquainted with a stranger's bodily fluids, and Maria learns to Wait For It.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why hello again =) 
> 
> So, quick warning for this chapter, which I'm going to extend as a blanket warning for the rest of the fic because I don't want to be too spoilery. Some characters use some bad language - srsly, their mothers would be ashamed. If that's not something you're cool with then fair enough, but I'd advise you to skip the whole thing cos it's not going to get any better. Also there's going to be a lot of discussion of mental health issues, including therapy and medication, because of reasons.
> 
> I apologise for any inaccuracies, I am bad at life, so feel free to point them out =)
> 
> Anywhoo - if I've not scared you off, then enjoy the chapter!

Thomas stands at the front of the stage. Eyes, wide open, Grin, a million watts. This is it, what he lives for, the reason he gets up every morning.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

Madison is concerned, but Madison’s always concerned. The frail sound engineer has never quite understood what it means to be an actor, especially not one on the West End. He doesn’t know what it is to give not just your mind and your hands to a job, but your whole body, your whole being, your whole soul. When Thomas Jefferson steps up onto the stage, he isn’t just himself pretending to be Daveed Diggs, third president of the United States, he is Daveed Diggs, third president of the United States. Also, that French guy from the first act, Jason Penycooke.

It’s tiring, it’s stressful, it’s every single day until either his contract runs out or some weird disaster wipes out the whole of London. Or he actually dies, as Madison seems to be convinced will happen.

He’s done this his whole life though, over the years he’s built up stamina, grit. And sure, the past couple of weeks have been a bit shaky, what with the whole incident with that weird woman in the audience, and the fact that whenever Angelica had her big number he kept hearing odd overlays of EDM that were definitely not there originally. Angelica had found that part weirdly funny when he’d told her, apparently, her sister is some big-shot DJ person in the states, so it’s fitting. The part she’d found to be just plain old strange was when she found him casually leafing through stock market predictions in The Economist before a show one night.

“Really Thomas?” She’d said, “I didn’t know you were into stocks. Or money. Or The Economist.”

“I’m not.” He’d hurriedly shoved the magazine down behind a piece of retired scenery, embarrassment scorching his cheeks.

He remembers that he’d been just as puzzled as her, as if he hadn’t even been aware of what he was doing. He’d made his excuses then hidden in his dressing room, the hot Summer draft blasting through the theatre suddenly feeling weirdly chilly.

Sure, he’ll admit that the past week’s been a little…. odd, but that’s inconsequential right now.  Now, he has a show to do, and he’ll be damned if anyone’s going to stop him from doing it, least of all himself. 

 

* * *

 

“Show-tunes, Mr. Burr?”

He knows it sounds insane, doesn’t need a forty-two-year-old woman with a graduated bob and a degree in psychology to tell him that. The fan whirrs, but he can still feel sweat soaking into the back of his shirt, the leather seat still squeaks whenever he moves.

“I know it sounds… strange,” he says, hesitantly. He wonders if he’s been too honest, if this whole process would’ve gone a lot faster if he’d skipped the part about the late-night hallucinations and pleaded stress and too much work as the cause of his difficulties over the past couple of days.

Her expression is unreadable, and when she speaks, her tone is measured and precise, “And what, exactly, is it about these show-tunes that you’re finding to be so distressing?” she asks, and Aaron feels quite grateful that she’s taking it as seriously as she is. He’d pictured it going a lot worse. Maybe it’s a part of learning to be a therapist? Maybe she’s taken classes on how to be completely unflappable?

It’s an odd image - Dr. Livingston as anything other than a middle-aged career woman. It makes him uncomfortable, so he pushes it away.

Instead, he says, “I don’t really find them to be ‘distressing’.” because it’s true, he doesn’t. They’re more annoying than anything else, after all, who wouldn’t get sick of hearing those same songs, over and over again, from seven O’clock until eleven O’clock. Every. Single. Night.

And that’s not taking into account the audience.

She doesn’t seem to like this answer though, scribbles something down in that little book of hers, the one that he’s not allowed to see despite it being all about him. He’d seen a video on YouTube once, some therapist saying that it was bad practice for her to not tell him what she was writing about him. When he brought it up, Dr. Livingston had just told him that it was her business how she treated her patients and her administration

“Clearly that’s not the case Mr. Burr,” she says eventually, when she’s finished scribbling down her judgements, “I’m somewhat... concerned by this. Unless you don’t remember what happened last time you didn’t properly take care of your mental well-being?”

How could he not remember? But still, it seems like it’d be more interesting to hear it from her, so he says, “You know, I’m a little fuzzy on the details. How about you remind me?”

She rubs her temples, “If I remember correctly, you came in here and got very upset about a certain missing umbrella. Not to mention the fact that you started seeing me in the first place because your RA became concerned that you…” a sigh this time, long-suffering, a response that Aaron is rather proud to have inspired, “...you decided to declare the third floor an independent nation and wouldn’t allow any of the freshman to leave if they didn’t pay the border tax.”

“Oh yes, that sounds about right. Don’t worry though Doctor Livingstone, I promise not to start any independent nations this time round.” he flashes her what he understands to be his most charismatic smile.

“I’m sure you can see where I’m coming from.” She says, clicks her pen again, sweeps her hair behind her ears and pushes her peppermint coloured spectacle further up her nose, “So how about you tell me what it is that’s bothering you about your hallucinations?”

He relents, kind of, “Well, you see, they’re quite loud.”

“Loud?” She prompts, back in her comfort zone.

Aaron nods, then pauses to carefully consider his next words. He can’t be careless, has already been careless, he can’t allow her to conclude that he needs any ‘courses of treatment’ like last time, can’t deal with any drugs, “Well yes,” he says cautiously, “It’s hard to sleep when all you can hear is the closing number of the hit musical ‘Miranda’.” he explains s if it makes all the sense in the world.

“Well, yes… I suppose that could be disconcerting.” she fixes him with a searching look, as if she can psychoanalyse him by looking at him.

“Oh, it is.” he says easily, not letting it get to him.

She clicks her pen again, scrutinises him, makes a decision, “I think you know what I’m about to say next, Mr. Burr.”

He groans internally, “Iloperidone.”.

She nods, “If that’s the medication that helped last time, then I’m sure Dr. Montgomery will prescribe it again. Alongside a standard course of CBT with myself, of course.”

He groans _ex_ ternally. Isn’t this swell; drugs _and_ more time with the delightful Dr. Livingston.

She raises an eyebrow, “Regardless of your feelings on the matter Mr. Burr, there is no denying that this course of treatment has helped you in the past. And it won’t be forever, just until the hallucinations stop bothering you as much.”

“They don’t bother me.” he protests.

“Your grades say otherwise.”

He hates the drugs though, and what’s more, he hates _her._ He buries his face in his hands, screws up his eyes to block out the bright light filtering in through the window.

“I promise you Aaron, it won’t be forever.”

“I guess I’m just going to have to wait, aren’t I?”

“That you are.”

 

* * *

 

Theodosia is competent. Confident. Skilled. Sometimes she’s even humble about it.  

What she isn’t? She isn’t This, whatever ‘This’ is.

She’s being dramatic, she knows she is, but it’s frustrating. She’s tired, dizzy, convinced that she might be hearing things. Jacques had been concerned when she’d told him, suggested she take some time off work and visit the doctor.

She’d agreed to visit their GP, had an appointment booked for later that afternoon, but she wasn’t budging on the work thing. She knows what Jacques is like, knows that he’d rather she stays home like a good little wife, would rather she didn’t work at all, and definitely not a job like hers.

She knows being a paramedic is dangerous, knows being a paramedic in Cheetam Hill* of all places is more so but she doesn’t care. She loves her job, and she’ll keep doing it until she decides to move on her own terms.

Which is why, when she finds herself being bollocked by her superior outside of the A&E at North Manchester General, she doesn’t take too kindly to it. Which is how she ends up suspended and issued with an order to “Look after yourself Theo, and for Feck’s sake clean yourself up - you look like you just wandered off the set of Walking Dead!”

Her blood sizzles, her actual blood, not the stuff soaking into her uniform. She knows it’s not that he doesn’t respect her logically, but inside? Logic makes no difference whatsoever.

 

* * *

 

Aaron wakes up, and he feels angry.

The anger just prompts confusion, because really, this is _Aaron_ , the closest he gets to anger is the occasional bout of passive aggression and devastating sarcasm. He spies the bottle of pills on the nightstand, ‘Iloperidone, to be taken twice a day’, and wonders if they are the perpetrators of his newfound anger. It’d make sense if they were - he’s been on them a little under a week, and accompanying the feeling of general malaise his doctor tells him is a sign of low-level hypotension, are the usual dizziness and sleepiness.

It won’t be for long, he reminds himself. His last psychotic episode, a year ago now, had only lasted a month. It probably would’ve been less if he hadn’t been so concerned with world domination via the third-floor dorms. This time he hasn’t experienced any delusions, of grandeur, paranoia, or otherwise. No, this time it’s just hallucinations.

 _Just_ hallucinations.

He wonders which deity he pissed off enough for that to be an actual thought coming from his actual brain. His actual brain that is making him listen to the entire fucking ‘Miranda’ cast album every night, his actual brain that made him think he was soaked in actual human blood when he woke up at four in the morning for the fifth time in a row, his actual brain that is perfectly happy _not_ responding to the meds, thank you very much.  He supposes anger is a rational response, it’s a frustrating situation that isn’t helped one bit by the fact that it’s coming from within.

Because really, who _exactly_ is he supposed to be angry with? He’s not sure it’s his own anger anyway, it feels… foreign. Like it comes from an outside source, from that woman, maybe? He’d meant to tell Professor Washington about her, when he couldn’t hand the paper in, but he never had to, it turned out the man had called in sick.

Aaron isn’t sure if he should count his blessings on that one or not. He opts for not, he doesn’t really have the energy to thank a mysterious benefactor who may or may not actually exist. He’s glad he doesn’t have to explain himself though, at least not any more than usual. The fact that he’s seeing a therapist provided by the school takes away the need to do that a lot of the time, but he still has to on occasion. It sucks.

He sighs and stretches, throws off the covers and listens as they crumple lightly on the floor. He should get up. _Has_ to, it’s not a choice. He’s already missed too much anyway, can’t afford to miss more. Ben Arnold, his roommate has been helpful, they’ve been friends a long time and he’s helped Aaron with stuff like this before, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a limit to the man’s patience. And besides, Aaron’s a grownup, he should be able to look after himself, he _is_ able to look after himself most of the time. And sure, he knows that his occasional difficulties with his mental health don’t define him _or_ his friendship with Ben, but when it gets like this? It’s hard not to feel like a load.

So yeah, he’s a grownup, about to do grownup things. Things like- he glances at the clock, shit- things like be late to his _second_ class of the day.

He jams his arms into a shirt, legs into jeans, feet into shoes but not socks because he’s edgy like that and he also kind of forgot. He sprints down the corridor and manages to avoid careening into a couple of other students heading out like he is. Crams himself into the elevator, pauses for a second to catch his breath.

And then he’s off again, onto his bicycle because there isn’t _time_ to wait for a bus.

Arrives outside the lecture hall doubled over and gasping for breath. It takes him all of two seconds to realise that not one part of the morning shit-show that just occurred included him remembering to take his meds.

He glances at his watch, he’s not too late, and he could probably get away with sitting through just this one class without the meds. They don’t work anyway. But still… he doesn’t know what it is, possibly years of therapy conditioning him into med-compliance, but he kind of feels antsy about not having taken them.

Slowly, he wheels his bike over to one of the stands, takes the lock out of his bag and begins to secure it to the rail. He knows the lock probably won’t make any difference if somebody really wanted to take it - all they’d need would be a good set of-

He stops that thought halfway through, not sure where it came from. This is a nice area, not to mention right in the middle of the campus of one of the best, and most expensive, colleges in the world. Why would a regular student be carrying around _wire-cutters_ in the middle of the day right in front of campus security?

_An eight-year-old Maria stands, staring at the pink bike, locked with an equally shiny lock to the gate of the school._

_“Why can’t I have a bike like that mommy?” she asks, tears streaming down her face._

_Her mom squeezes her hand, “It’s too expensive sweetie, you know we’ve not got the money for things like that.”_

_It’s okay though, she tells her brother about the bike, and the next day after school all that’s left are the two halves of the lock._

_It’s not until she’s much older she realises why little Lizzie Schuyler was in gobs of sobs that day. It didn’t matter though, because soon enough the whole Schuyler family moved away._

_Maria loves her new bike._

“Hey, Earth to Burr!”

Aaron jumps about a mile into the air as a large hand claps him on the shoulder. He looks up to see Ben, accompanied by a couple of other people from their class, namely one Hercules Mulligan and Paul Revere. He’s confused for a moment, and then even more so when he sees what looks to be their entire class milling around on the sunlit stretch of land outside the building. He blinks a couple of times to clear his head before replying, “Hey Ben, Mulligan, Revere,” he nods at each in turn as he greets them, “What time is it, how come no one’s in class?”

Ben frowns at that, but Mulligan takes over the explaining for him, “Cancelled. The Prof never turned up.”

“Oh... “ Aaron says, glances at his watch, quietly sighs in relief. He didn’t lose too much time to that… whatever that was.

“I heard his wife died.” Revere says in a voice that’s probably not as sympathetic as it ought to be.

“Poor guy,” Mulligan replies, but at this point Aaron isn’t really listening to them, he’s thinking about the girl and the bike, and now oddly enough, the woman. He resists the urge to bury his head in his hands out of frustration. Perhaps the meds had been helping more than he initially thought.

He’s drawn out of it pretty quick though when Revere shoots a question towards him, “Hey Burr, how come you’re here anyway? Benny-boy here said that you were still sick.”

“Wait, what?” Mulligan interrupts, “You’re sick? Stay away from me man! I can’t be dealing with the fucking flu, I’ve got a pants assignment for Professor Ross due in next week!”

Aaron doesn’t ask what a ‘pants assignment’ is, just assumes it’s a tailoring thing and leaves it well enough alone. He does however catch Ben’s eye and give him a quick nod of thanks, glad that he apparently hasn’t told the others about what Aaron was _actually_ sick with. He doubts that the student body of one of the most prestigious academic institutions around would take kindly to one of their number being psychotic. Stigma would probably be an understatement.

Ben doesn’t reciprocate, just looks at him with increasing concern, “How come you are here Aaron? I thought you were still feeling sick when I left?”

“Yeah, well,” the anger is back again, but he pushes it away, “I figured it’s probably gonna take me a while to get over this one, I don’t want to get too behind in classes.”

Ben doesn’t look happy, but he takes it.

“I was thinking of heading back to the room, I… I might give it another day before coming back fully” Aaron admits after a couple of seconds, because really, he is feeling distinctly unsettled right now. And if it was stress that triggered this whole thing in the first place? He should probably be avoiding it like the plague.  

Ben nods, before saying “Make sure you get some rest Aaron, if you don’t you’ll never get better."

  
Aaron stands, takes a moment to stretch the cramps out of his legs from crouching for so long, before throwing a leg over the back and getting ready to push off “I will.” he assures him, gives the others a wave, before peddling right back the way he came.

 

* * *

 

Maria stands outside the hospital, her coach, Sally, beside her, staring angrily at the sky. If this was a few years ago, there would’ve been a cigarette perched between her lips, red lipstick smeared of the paper, hot smoke searing her lungs in all the best kinds of ways.

Now she has to look after herself, now she has something to lose.

“I hate this,” she seethes, and Sally nods understandingly. As if she could ever understand. Well, she probably can, but Maria doesn’t care, “Why won’t they let me fight?”

She can see Sally’s eyeroll, “You heard the Doctor - you don’t want to injure your ribs any more than you already have. Plus, you could puncture your lungs and die. Horribly.”

Maria scowls because Sally’s right.

“I hate this.” She repeats. She wants a smoke, knows that it would be bad for her though. The strange thing is, usually her impulse control would have her wrestling on the ground with Sally over a pack of the things by now, but this past week she’s felt… in charge.

It’s a feeling that she’s starting to grow accustomed to, a feeling that she hasn’t had since James did what he did. She isn’t used to it, but she likes it, likes feeling like she can just say no to whatever the fuck she wants to.

Self-control, she thinks, suits her quite nicely indeed. If she needs to have some time off to get better? If that’s what it’s going to take for her to be able to fight again?

  
Well, she's more than willing to wait for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Cheetam Hill is a not-great area in Manchester for anyone who doesn't know =P Also, sorry Mancunians for the vaguely unflattering portrayal of your city, I love you really! 
> 
> Thanks for reading! And thanks to people who left kudos and comments and bookmarks on the last chapter - it's greatly appreciated!
> 
> *Quick note to the five people who've had chance to read this chapter before I changed it - I just switched around a little of the formatting, so don't worry, I didn't do anything major =P


	3. Limbic Resonance - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex confuses Ned by talking about Angels, and disaster looms for both of them.
> 
> Meanwhile, John is an ass, Laf endures some elaborate costume pieces, and Eliza just wishes her sisters would leave her alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Ummm…. I don’t really know what to say about this chapter…
> 
> Also blanket warning for rest of fic (I know… I know…) but there’s some homophobia and possibly/probably transphobia that are going to come up. (I mean, it’s a Sense8 AU, what were you expecting to happen?) I think I might just start putting blanket warnings in the tags and reminding people to check with them if necessary, if that’s okay with you guys? Now is the time to speak up if it’s not! Also future minor character death. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“Hey Babe?”

Martha Manning's eager fingers still at John’s words, frozen at the zipper on his jeans, he swallows, nervous.

_Oh God, he’s really doing this._

He pushes her away, scooches awkwardly to the other end of the bed to put as much distance between them as possible. He looks at him questioningly, or is that emotion hurt? Honestly, with Martha John can’t really tell anymore, which is why he needs to do this, he reminds himself sternly. This isn’t working anymore. Hasn’t been working for a long time, won’t ever-

“You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?” She says suddenly, sunlight from the open window falling on her dark curls in that way that made him think he loved her the first-time round. She looks like a fucking _angel_. And then he realises what she’s said, and his stomach plummets down through three floors of solid concrete and submerges itself in the ancient Native American burial ground he’s at least ninety percent certain the house is built on.

“It’s okay,” she smiles softly, slowly closes the distance he’s made between them. Tentative, she holds his hand in hers, “I was just waiting for you to say it. I knew it was coming since last week.”

He feels his brow furrow as he looks at her, “What do you mean?”

“Well, you know,” she fidgets and looks away, “you did say that you felt like the spirit of your mother was looking down on us with righteous condemnation whilst I was giving you a hand job.”

Oh. That.

“That doesn’t have to mean anything!” he tries to explain, like an ass.

“I think it was more your word choice than anything,” she says, meeting his eyes with far more earnestness than the situation probably warrants, “‘Righteous’ doesn’t really suggest that you disagree with the whole ‘condemning our relationship’ thing”

And it seems like he’s started something now, because Martha Manning’s eyes are brittle steel that he’s not strong enough to snap, and there is _no way_ either of them are getting out of this one.

He tries anyway, _like an ass_ , “You know, I don’t think it was even my _mother’s_ spirit that was looking down on us,” he says, “I think I just said that because I thought it would be kind of hard to explain why a woman who wasn’t my mother was watching us have sex, and-”

The only reason he stops is because she’s placed a soft finger on his lips, “Shh, John, it’s okay,” it’s at that moment that his body decides to remember that she’s still naked, and her bare breasts are dangling precariously close to his equally bare chest, “I think you’ve made it clear that you’re not happy with us being… what we are. The spirit world or you subconscious, I think it’s wise to listen either way.”

He reaches for her cheek, doesn’t speak this time because he knows she’s right, but she slips away before he can touch her.

And then she’s halfway across the room, pulling on her acid-wash jeans and stretching her arms up into her white sweater, streaks of sun highlighting her soft curves and the rhythmic way she moves across the floor.

She’s at the door now, she hesitates, “I’ll see you around John… I… I hope we can still be friends.”

John just nods, not trusting himself to speak.

She’s gone, and he flops backwards onto the bed, defeated. What, exactly, was he going to tell his father now? ‘Oh, hey Dad, you know that girl that you really wanted me to get with because you think I’m gay? We just broke up! Because I’m just! So! Straight!”

Nope. Not a conversation he’s looking forward to one bit.

It’s not even that he’s completely gay, if he absolutely had to give himself a label, he’d probably say he was pansexual, the mere idea of choosing a partner based on gender had always seemed to be kind of arbitrary and a bit odd to him anyway.

He just tends to fall for guys more often. And he doesn’t fall easy.

What a mess. He closes his eyes, thinking that perhaps that’ll solve his problems.

And then he opens them again, because is that _the sea_ he can hear?

And… he is not in his room, not surrounded by countless medical textbooks and inoffensive posters, by his own shame, he’s in an office. It’s small and dinghy, and through the window he can see what looks to be a port filled with a combination of tourists and people going about the daily grind.

A few seagulls caw.

He sniffs, the scent of the sea is heavy in the air.

He turns around when he gets a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. There’s a man seated at the desk, he looks to be around the same age as John, but his eyes are filled with a sort of youthful reverence. He’s not like Martha, not like Martha at all. He looks at John like he’s the best thing on the fucking planet.

And then he stands, palms flat on the desk in front of him accidently brushing some of the papers he’s been working on to the floor in his eagerness. He just stands there for a few seconds, and John isn’t sure quite how to respond, and then the man speaks.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

John has no clue what he’s on about, so he nods hesitantly, _like a fucking ass._

The man is oddly enthused by this, “Oh wow, you guys don’t really tend to respond when I ask you things, man, Ned is gonna be so fucking jealous when I tell him about this-”

And just like that, the strange man and his office are gone, and John is more confused than ever.

 

* * *

 

“I’m gonna do it Ned- you’ll see. I’m gonna work on Wall Street someday, with a suit and a briefcase and everything,” Alex says, stretches out and feels the cool pricks of grass digging into his back. There’s a reason for them being there, on the top of the hill. Tourists like it because you can see the whole island, which would be nice if that didn’t feel so much like a cage.

Alex and Ned like it for a different reason - because it’s the furthest they’ll ever be from the place they grew up.

He can feel Ned shake his head next to him, laughter escaping from his lips, “The fuck kind of dream is that?” He inhales deeply on the joint and Alex watches as the curls of smoke escape his friend’s lips and float upwards into the night sky, “‘Sides, you have to go to school to do that kinda shit, and live in the states, and you and I both know that not one sucker in this fucking hellhole is leaving anytime soon.”

 Alex shakes his head, “You’re wrong Ned,” he props himself up on an elbow so he can look his friend in the eye, “I’m gonna do it.” he believes what he’s saying as well, beyond the feeling of determination that thrums through his body with every heartbeat, beyond the desire of every other islander and their dog to just get out there, he’s going to do it, he’s going to be the one.

“And what is it that makes you any more special than anyone else?” Ned stubs the joint out in a nearby patch of dirt, careful to avoid the grass. There’d been a fire on the hill when they were both too young to remember, but they’d always been warned by various adults about the dangers of accidentally starting fires.

Alex knows the answer to this question though, it comes as easily to him as breathing, “Why am I special?” And now he’s sat up fully, fixing Ned with a gaze that would probably have him telling Alex to calm the fuck down if he wasn’t high as a kite, “It’s because I’ve been seeing angels Ned, every single night.”

Ned doesn’t have… _quite_ the reaction that Alex was expecting. There is considerably more laughter. Eventually he calms down enough to speak though, “Angels? You kidding me? The fuck are you trying to pull Alex?” he shakes his head, bemused, “Angels, Jesus H. Christ, I think that’s enough weed for you for, like, _ever”_

“Look, I know it sounds unusual-” Alex starts before Ned interrupts him.

“Unusual’s not the word I’d be going for if I were you,” he quips.

Alex groans in frustration, rocking backwards briefly on the palms of his hands before turning back to Ned, “You don’t get it, I’m telling the truth!”

“Fine, then describe these ‘Angels’ for me, I’m curious,” Ned says, sitting up himself so that the pair are eye to eye.

“Fine,” Alex takes a deep breath, “there’s a few, I dunno how many, I’ve not been counting. The first one though, was this woman - she looked real strung out, she was really dirty as well, but I was working late at your Dad’s place and she just kinda appeared out of nowhere,” Alex shrugs, feeling oddly exposed.

Ned, to his credit, just nods sagely.

“Then there was this man, he was tall, and had curly hair and a voice like nothing you’ve ever heard.” Alex explains.

“What was he singing?” Ned asks, doing an okay job of keeping the snigger out of his voice.

Alex scowled at him, “Some song from that musical. Anyway, he wasn’t as good as the next one, she was a DJ or something, I don’t know, but she was so _beautiful_ , and she looked... kind as well.” he smiled at the thought, “I’ve never seen somebody who looked so kind.”

“Whatever man, booooring, who’s next?”

Alex thought back to the next one, they’d been a little hard to describe, “This person, they were in France, I think? I don’t know, they were speaking French though, had a kind of Parisian accent if I had to guess? They were dressed so colourfully though - all the colours of the rainbow, wearing a dress down to their toes made from this real-gauzy material that just sort-of _flowed_ when they moved,” Yes, Alex was aware that he was gushing, but no, he didn’t care.

“And then the one I saw this morning” he continues, “he had freckles like the _stars_ ,” he looked up, saw the actual stars, they were dull in comparison.

Ned sits there for a second, waits to see if there’re any more. There isn’t, so he takes this as his quee to wrestle Alex into into a headlock and give him a noogie.  

“The fuck was that about?” Alex protests.

“You were getting too crazy for me to handle. Angels? Seriously? What’s all that about?”

Alex groans, collapses backwards on the grass, “I knew you wouldn’t get it.”

Ned joins him and they just lie there for moment, enjoying each other’s presence before the familiar crawling feeling of restlessness sinks back into Alex’s stomach, and Ned starts to glance back at the town, and the mutual decision that really should be heading back now is made.

Stuff like this… it’s good while it lasts, Alex thinks as they walk together back along the dirt path to town.

  
The only problem is, he always misses it when it’s gone.

 

* * *

 

 

Laf feels _amazing_.

Only part of it is down to their outfit - a beautiful dress with a skirt in _all_ the colours. Wearing it made Laf feel more secure in their gender than anything else they owned, and it was _incredible_. So much so they’d been trying it on every night before bed, and even sometimes dreamed that they were wearing it.

And only part of it is down to the way Adrienne is practically gushing over their new outfit, her hands fluttering around out of sheer amazement. “Oh, Gil- I mean Laf, it is truly superb!” she exclaims, rushing forward, and clutching both of Laf’s hands to her chest, “where on Earth did you find such a wonderful garment!?!”

Laf does not blush at her admiration, for the first time in their life, they are comfortable being viewed with such _wonder_ , and they’ll be damned if they aren’t going to savour it. There’s no dysphoria accompanying _this_ particular ego boost, they think proudly.

“It was a gift, from one of my American subscribers,” they say in response to Adrienne’s question, “A man studying to be a designer in one of their colleges.” the next bit _does_ make Laf blush, but only a little” He said that I inspired him to come out to his friends.”

“Of Laf! That is truly incredible, to think you could have so much influence!” she gushes, “And whoever this person is, he is certainly very talented with a needle!” she goes back to admiring the dress, “Is this what you are going to be wearing to Pride?”

Laf nods, “Of course it is, my dearest Adri!” and they pick up the skirts of the dress, swirl around, “this is truly incredible!” They pause, thinking of a question, “but what of yourself?”

She hesitates, then breaks into a smile, heads over to her wardrobe, “Sit,” she says, gesturing towards the bed. It is as neat and tidy as Adrienne is beautiful, so they don’t even have to move anything out of their way to be able to sit down. They can’t help but be reminded of an odd dream they had a short while ago, one involving a strange little man and a room that smelled like the sea. That room had been anything _but_ tidy. Laf’s been having a lot of strange dreams lately. There is no need to worry Adrienne with them though.

And then Laf hears something strange- a _glugging_ sound, like a bath being emptied of water. It is odd, but lots of things have been odd recently and they choose not to dwell on it.  

They are careful as they fold the beautiful dress beneath them, and look up to Adrienne expectantly.

And then she’s changing, her skin smooth and supple beneath the golden light from the sunset filtering in through the venetian blinds. And before Laf even realises what’s happened, they are staring at the woman who is the very definition of elegance and poise dressed as a giant zucchini.

She stands in front of them, nervous, as she shifts from one green-tight-clad-leg to the other, and Laf isn’t really sure what to think.

“So?” she prompts eventually.

“Adrienne, is this… a, err, visual metaphor? Are you trying to tell me that you are aromantic?” they say after a few seconds of contemplation.

“Perhaps?” she says, and despite the ridiculous costume, Laf can tell that she is close to tears.

“Oh, Adri,” they say, standing up and practically bounding across the room to envelope her in a hug, “you should know by now that elaborate costume pieces are a terrible way to come out as anything!”

“You seemed to understand,” she sniffs softly, trying to hug Laf back, but finding it somewhat difficult due to the fact that she was dressed as a giant piece of fruit.

“But you are so very upset, and it is so very difficult to hug you! This happens every time, or do you not remember the giant trans symbol costume?”

Her few elegant tears quickly turn into very inelegant sobbing, and Laf finds it increasingly hard to find a way to envelope her in one of the bear hugs she usually longs for when upset.

“Anyway,” she says, wiping tears away from her swollen red eyes, and takes Laf’s hands in hers once more, “That is not all that I wanted to say,” she murmurs, before frowning, “But I think I wish to remove this costume first, will you help me Laf?”

“Of course.” And they do, and soon enough they are both sat on her bed, with Adrienne wearing her tights and a long shirt.

“So… I wanted to ask you something,” she says, meeting their eyes with her own, “and it’s all right if you want to say no, I won’t mind. But…” she takes a deep breath, “will you be my zucchini*, Laf?”

Laf smiles, “of course!” they say, as if it was even a question as opposed to an inevitable occurrence, and then they pull her into a bear hug at long last.  

 

* * *

 

  
_It was only when they got home that the pair realised Ned still had far more illegal substance on his person than either was comfortable with, which lead to the fairly obvious conclusion that they were going to have to smoke it. All of it._

Eliza shakes her head, clearing her thoughts as she gets into the car with her sister, Peggy. What is _with_ her today? Earlier, she’d barely been able to focus on anything at all, the world foggy and unreal, and even her music too far away to grasp fully.

She wonders if it’s her anxiety. She doubts it’s her anxiety, anxiety’s never lead to preoccupations with strange men who live by the sea. Or with showtunes. Or with extravagant pictures from pride festivals past. Or with fantasies of women in possession of perfect hips and blood red lips knocking the shit out of other women in a boxing ring.

Eliza doesn’t even _like_ boxing.  

 _But Maria does_ her brain whispers unhelpfully. Who in a boxful of kickboxing fudge sticks is _Maria_?

_Alex lies back on Ned’s bed; the world is fucking golden-_

And Eliza doesn’t share the same sentiment. She leans her head on the cool glass of Peggy’s car window as her sister starts the engine.

“Seatbelt, ‘Liza” she prompts, and Eliza mechanically fastens the metal clip into the buckle.

Peggy switches on the radio, all Eliza can hear is that song from that musical Angie’s in.

“Ugh, why’re you playing this Peg?”

Peggy frowns, “I thought you liked prog house stuff? You were prattling on about ‘A Sky Full of Stars’ the other day, so I loaded up a playlist of similar stuff for you.”

Eliza would describe Angie’s musical as many things, but _certainly_ not ‘prog house’.

“What are you on about ‘Liza? This isn’t Angie!” and it’s too late that Eliza realizes she’d spoken aloud.

She breathes deeply, tries to practice the centring techniques she’d learnt all those years ago. But nothing centres her like music, it’s what she needs to _live_. And now all she can hear is ‘ _satisfied, satisfied, satisfied,’_

“‘Liza? Are you okay? You’re acting strange… are you having a stroke, oh my word, you’re having a stroke, we need to get you to the fucking hospital, _pronto._ ”

Eliza shakes her head, “I’m not having a stroke Peg, don’t worry, I’m just a little…” she struggles to find the right words, feels like the very structure of her brain has been warped and twisted and is getting worse, “a little out of it.” she settles on.

Peggy doesn’t seem particularly happy with that answer, but she nods anyway, “Okay then, whatever you say.” Peggy puts her foot on the accelerator and pulls out of the fuel bay. Eliza watches as the gas station gets smaller and smaller as they drive further and further away.

_Ned stands, and Alex watches, disoriented, as he moves out of the room._

_“I’ll be back soon.”_

_And then Alex is sitting in a car, in the backseat behind two women. He recognises one, she’s one of the angels._

Eliza whips round to, sure enough, find the man in the back of the car, a dazed looking grin on his face. She glances at Peggy, who seems none the wiser. _Shit_ , she really is losing it, isn’t she?

“Are you taking me to heaven?” the man says, a questioning look in his eyes.

Eliza doesn’t speak, doesn’t want to let her sister know she’s seeing somebody who i _sn’t even there_ , so she just slowly shakes her head.

“To hell, then?” he asks, a little downhearted but still mostly unfazed, “It is all right, Miss angel, if you turn out to have been a demon all the while. I won’t blame you for my foolishness.”

And that… that weary acceptance of his fate, that makes Eliza a little sad. Despite the fact that he’s some kind of hallucination or weird daydream, or _whatever_ , because as scary as Peggy might seem when you piss her off, she’s certainly no ferryman, or woman.

So... she shakes her head again.

His brow quirks a little in confusion, “So you’re not taking me to Heaven…. And you’re not taking me to Hell… either you’re lying, Ned’s weed is stronger than he _said,_ or you’re taking me somewhere else.”

And… none of those are right. But it doesn’t matter, because beside them, there is a building that has been lurking at the edges of both of their subconscious since that day just a couple of weeks ago.

“Ah, so this is the somewhere else.” the man says quietly.

Eliza doesn’t pay him any attention because she’s too busy telling her sister to, “Stop the car Peg, I need to get out.”

“What?”

“Just let me out Peg, or I swear to god I will open this door and jump out myself-” Eliza says, and she’s sure it’s gone a long way towards convincing Peggy just how stable she is.

Peggy concedes though, and pulls over wearing an expression of quiet disbelief.

There’s time for a quick, “Thanks Peg!” before Eliza throws open the door, unbuckles her seatbelt, and slips her feet out of her six-inch heels. And then she runs, realising too late that maybe taking off her shoes to sprint across the middle of downtown New York was a _bad plan_.

But then she’s through the doorway to the church, carefully picking her way over broken slabs of concrete, and then there’s the mattress, _the mattress,_ in front of her, but it’s... Empty?

Eliza doesn’t know what to think, maybe the rain washed away the blood, or maybe the police discovered the body and took it away. But there is relief, _so much relief_ , because this actually happened- had to have actually happened, because she’s actually physically here, and she’s never been here before, but she still knew what it looked like.

“Oh my god… it’s real.... All of it’s _real_ ” she whispers to herself, and then she’s saying it to the man because he’s standing beside her looking a bit confused, “You’re real!” she tells him, quiet joy in her voice as she reaches forward, brushes a soft hand against his _real_ cheek.

He just nods, going along with it.

She takes a deep breath, composes herself, before meeting his eyes with a nervous smile, “So, now we’ve established mutual realness, or at least I have anyway, I think introductions are in order.” She offers a hand to shake, he takes it hesitantly, “My name’s Elizabeth Schuyler, but most people just call me Eliza. Also, I have no idea what is going on, just that it is.”

“Alexander Hamilton,” he responds, “Alex, really. And, err, you’re a very strange angel.”

She lets go of his hand, “That’s because I’m not an angel, I’m a person, just like you and that woman we all saw. I live in New York City, in America.”

His face brightens up immensely at that, “America?! You live in America? And in New York as well?

She nods, “I’m assuming you don’t?”

“No, I live in St. Croix, and wow! This is _America!”_ he laughs, looks around him, taking in the sight of the crumbling church, “I always assumed from the pictures that it was _less_ of a shit hole.”

She smiles, “It’s not all like this - just parts. Although those parts are definite shit holes.”

“You have to show me!” He exclaims, resting his hands on her shoulders in excitement.

“Sure, just maybe not- Alex?”

He’s gone stock still, every muscle in his body tense, eyes focused on some faraway point that was definitely not Eliza.

“Alex?” she tries again, waves a hand in front of his face, “Are you… okay?”

 _“Alex, man, we gotta get the_ fuck _outta here!”_

He jerks away, and her shoulders feel bare and empty.

_“Ned, I don’t… what’s going on?”_

_“The sea has drained away... “_

_“Shit!”_

And then he’s gone, and Eliza is left, alone in the empty abandoned church.

  
She shivers in a non-existent breeze, hugs her arms to her chest. One question rattling, insistent around her mind - ‘What now?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah… so that happened. 
> 
> Honestly, I don’t really know how to explain this one, I just let my attention wander for a couple of seconds and suddenly John’s breaking up with his gf because of ‘righteous condemnation’ And Adrienne’s using laboured visual metaphors to come out. 
> 
> Le sigh
> 
> Also, quick note- anyone who's familiar with Sense8 is probably aware that all Sensates are Pansexual because of psychic shenanigans, which is why John isn't gay af =P 
> 
> *Zuchini = slang for queerplatonic partner
> 
> Also! I forgot to add these before, but:
> 
> Laf's dress - http://blog-imgs-38-origin.fc2.com/d/i/a/diamonddiary/alexander-mcqueen-spring-2003qeenrainbow.jpg
> 
> Adrienne's Costume - https://www.amazon.co.uk/d/Mascot-Costumes/Mascot-SpotSound-Amazon-customizable-zucchini-Zucchini-Costume/B00PYZEXPE  
> .


	4. I Am Also A We - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas reads the news,
> 
> He’s not really sure why he’s reading the news.
> 
> Meanwhile, Aaron proves yet again that he is a grumpy old man when it comes to music, Maria gets distracted by a pretty girl, and Alex does not go surfing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please beware of tags for this chapter! It’s pretty… intense, I guess? Idk lol =P Also, errrr, I think I had something I wanted to say? I can’t remember what it was =/ 
> 
> Enjoy the chapter! 
> 
>  
> 
> ….or don’t, I mean, I can’t MAKE you…

Alex blinks, surprised, as Ned tosses a duffel bag at him, “Alex, protect this with your life”

He catches it, hugs it to his chest, tries to get his mind of the ang- of Eliza and the ruined church. It’s not hit him yet. He knows what’s coming, but it hasn’t registered. The air is hot, humid. Sweat soaks into his hair, drips into the waistband of his pants. Ned’s shouting something at him, something that starts with an ‘A’ and ends with an ‘X’, oh, that must’ve been his name.

It doesn’t matter, not for long at least, because there’s the sound of roaring in his ears, screaming, and all he can think is it’s here.

He can only see it through the window, but he greets the rolling mass of black death with his eyes wide open.

 

* * *

 

 

“Well _shit,”_ Ben says, staring in shock at the laptop balanced precariously on his knee, “that… wow.”

Aaron looks up, momentarily distracted from the thick piles of handwritten notes strewn across the table in the Starbuck’s that he’s sorting through with the aid of a Decaf-latte. Well, printed out pictures of hand-written notes. He’d managed to snag people from all ten of his classes and get them to send him pictures of their own notes for the days he’d missed, he’d then printed off paper copies using the printer in the library. He’d have to do a more thorough going over of them in a bit, but for now, his plan is to just sort the things into something resembling order. It’s methodical, slow even, but with his life the way it is right now… well, he can deal with slow if it helps him keep his mind ordered, his thoughts under control.

But now here Ben is, and Aaron just knows he’s going to say something to completely throw a spanner in the works of Aaron’s day. He knows he won’t be able to get back to work without finding out though, so he offers up a perfunctory “What is it?”

Ben pulls his attention away from the bright LED screen long enough for Aaron to register his expression as having shifted from mild shock to irritation, “You know how Washington’s missed the past couple of classes?” he says between sips of his mocha frappe.

“Yeah?” Aaron’s not sure where this is going, but he’ll bite.

Ben scowls, “Fucker up and cancelled the course on us, ‘students will have the opportunity to pick up this course again next semester, in the meantime, we apologise for any inconvenience caused and appreciate your patience and discretion in this matter.’”

“Oh,” Aaron knows he sounds absent, uncaring, but his mind is whirring at a million miles an hour. He thinks back to the dream, hallucination, _whatever_ that night that started this thing off had been. He can’t remember well, but… hadn’t Washington been there? Sitting next to the woman before she shot herself? At the time, he’d thought it to be an innocuous manifestation of his subconscious mind, after all, he had been working on an essay for the man beforehand, and his brain had certainly pulled weirder tricks on him, even whilst not on the verge of a full-blown episode of psychosis.

And that’s the key word, isn’t it? ‘Psychosis’, a ‘loss of touch with reality’. He takes a moment to ‘centre’ himself, feel the edge of the chair digging into the underside of his thighs, to feel the light draft from the air conditioning rippling over his shaved head. He realises that perhaps deciding that his constitutional law professor was in the middle of some kind of… something, probably fits the ‘loss of touch with reality’ definition quite well. A paranoid delusion, as Dr. Livingston would probably call it. At least it makes a change from the delusions of grandeur he’d had last time.

Variety is the spice of life, after all.

But then, there’s that one pesky little word - ‘Discretion’. Discretion in _what,_ exactly? And so, one of their professors fucked up, Aaron highly doubts that that would ruin the college’s reputation. The same thing happened all the time at other colleges, unreliability is one of the many intransient qualities of a human work force, it’s not news, and it certainly doesn’t require _discretion_.

Ben appears to be waiting for Aaron to say something, so he does. “What do they need us to be _discreet_ about anyway?”

Ben shrugs, turns back to his laptop for a few seconds. The sound of his fingers skipping over the keys punctuates the unnecessarily obscure indie band playing over the cafe’s speaker system, until they go still, and Ben’s mouth morphs into a small ‘O’ shape.

Aaron waits for him to speak, when he doesn’t, he gently prompts him, “What is it?”

Ben doesn’t reply, just turns the laptop around so that Aaron can see the headline.

It feels like a bomb goes off in the pit of his stomach.

 

* * *

 

 

Wooden planks splinter like bone, bone splinters like wooden planks. There’s pain, hot and blue and burning. Ned is somewhere, he doesn’t know where. Rushing and screaming and darkness. He can’t breathe. When did that happen? His feet can’t touch the floor. When did that happen?

He kicks.

He kicks.

He kicks.

His feet hit the ground.

Something hits his legs and the floor is ripped away.

 

* * *

  
The bell rings and _thank god_ it does, because Maria finally feels alive again.

Before that though.

Numbness and pain, two cruel sons of bitches that just had to be joined at the hip everywhere they went. Maria’s no stranger to either, James had made sure of that. But she doesn’t exactly seek them out either, at least not anymore, Sally had made sure of _that_.

Long story short though recovery had been an inconvenience. Two weeks lying on the couch doing piss all whilst Sally brought her pain meds and supervised her to make sure she didn’t try and take out her frustrations in a way that would lose their bosses even more money than her injury and subsequent downtime already had, had left her feeling restless. Eager to get back in the fray and make up for lost time, even if she’s not a hundred percent better yet.

She’s pushing it by being here tonight, and she knows it. She doesn’t care though, she just wants to feel the sweat, the adrenaline, the thrill, not to mention the slight trill of satisfaction she gets every time she imagines James watching her career skyrocket. She pushes that last thought away. James has no place in the ring. This space is hers and hers alone, and even feelings of righteous superiority have no place here if they’re related to him.

She’s not here because she survived, she’s here because she’s good at what she does.

She’s good at what she does, but so is Dolley. The other woman grins at Maria, taunting.

The bell _rings_ , and the two opponents spring into action.

Dolley is all raw power, heavy shoulders and a stance Maria doubts she could break if she had a bulldozer with her. Maria’s fast though, _smart_. Ready for anything the Dolley can throw at her, including that right hook currently flying towards her head.

She ducks, just, follows through with a short series of jabs that the other woman deflects with relative ease. Maria grits her teeth, she’s not sure why she’s frustrated, they weren’t _supposed_ to land.

Dolley’s all up in her face though, using the two inches she has on Maria to her full advantage. Maria’s thinks she can smell her sweat, which is gross, but part of the job.

A round punch from Dolley, Maria doesn’t duck this time, instead raises an arm to block. The contact sends vibrations down her arm, and the crowd screams when Dolley’s follow up punch buries itself in Maria’s stomach and has her doubling over.

The world goes grey for a moment as Maria splutters and chokes for breath, but then she’s back. Her own glove collides with Dolley’s head, Dolley staggers, bright lights shimmer off the top of her helmet for a moment into Maria’s eyes.  

Maria doesn’t give Dolley much more of a chance than that though, she has to win this. It’s her comeback fight, something that rings true with each and every punch that she rains down on the other woman.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Ag-

And then all she can see are the kindest, most beautiful brown eyes in the world. Eyes filled with worry as-

Dolley recovers, hits Maria’s square in the jaw.

She’s jerked at an awkward angle, her body twists through the air, a trail of spittle following soon after. She hits the mat, her adrenaline pumped limbs oddly grateful for its softness.

She gasps for breath, is about to get up, and then she sees him.

A man, bald, tall, was probably Maria’s type when he was younger. He stares at her, she stares back. The world stops. The crowd is silent. All she can hear is whistling.

  
All she can see is grey.  

 

* * *

 

 

Choking Choking Choking Choking Choking Choking Choking

A mouth full of salt of salt and mud and water and

“Alex?”

* * *

 

 

The news tonight is… not good.

Thomas scrolls down through the BBC feed on his IPhone, knees pulled up to his chest, bare toes digging into the chorded sofa in the small but cosy living room in the flat he shares with Mads and Angelica. He’s comfortable, but reading about some of this stuff? It makes him feel things he’s not sure he wants to feel. It’s nothing new, the news never is any more, but apparently, he cares now. He’s not sure why, but apparently his carefully curated mixture of bitterness, upper-class entitlement, and political apathy/exhaustion are being breached by such title as ‘tenured professor at Columbia university wanted by the FBI in connection with newly uncovered paedophile ring in New York’, ‘Rare Pacific Ocean tsunami decimates several Caribbean islands and parts of the Eastern United States coastline’, and ‘Young women’s lightweight boxing champion Maria Reynolds rushed to hospital following what could possibly be a career ending injury’.

Someone powerful is corrupt, a disaster strikes somewhere in the world, a famous boxer gets fucked up, same old, same old. So why-oh-why does Thomas feel like _he’s_ one of the people whose home has been destroyed, or like _he’s_ one of the students who trusted somebody they shouldn’t have? Like it’s _his_ career and possibly life on the line?

It doesn’t make any sense, but then he’s-

_Oh god, he can’t believe he’d do something like that, he didn’t really, did he? That can’t be…_

_Cold clinical lights dampened by the fuzzing of her vision - if you can’t see does that mean you should be more scared?_

_A voice a hand a grabdragpull swoosh and-_

“My word Thomas, what is with you recently?”

Thomas looks up from his phone. Angelica is there, at the door to the living room in their somewhat spacious flat. He doesn’t know what she’s talking about, until a droplet of water splashes on the screen and turns it into a pixelated rainbow and he realises he’s crying.

Well… he’s just destroyed his sarcastic heartless jerk wad image for life. At least for Angelica anyway.

Hurriedly, he wipes his eyes. Angelica sighs and comes closer, takes a seat opposite him on the couch. She takes his phone from his slack fingers and gives the phone a cursory glance, “Is this what has you so upset?”

He shrugs, “Maybe… I don’t know.”

“So, let me get this straight,” she starts, and she still manages to look capable of dealing him more sass than he can handle in a lifetime even though her eyes are still puffy from taking of her makeup and she’s wearing pyjamas with bunny rabbits on, “Thomas Jefferson, the man who once told a _child_ they had zero talent, ‘for their own good’, is displaying _real human empathy_? Are you okay? Because I really don’t think you are, maybe you should go to the doctor.”

He throws a pillow at her head and she bats it away easily, it lands on the floor with a soft ‘poof’ sound, “Har-de-har-ha, you are just hilarious.”

She gives him a flash of the smile that got her the gig as the world’s new favourite revolution-era feminist in the first place, “Why, Thomas, you sure know how to make a girl feel good about herself.”

“Oh, shoosh,” he says, flapping an arm in her general direction, before turning around to face the TV that’s been playing ‘Coronation Street’ to itself the entire time, “you know the only one I have to please is Mads. Darling, you are basically just a beard to me.”  

“Please, Thomas, we work in musical theatre and you’re as camp as a cucumber. What in the world do you need a beard for?” she says, plucking the remote from between his crossed legs as she does so and perusing the channels for something that looks more interesting, “Also, soaps, Thomas? Really?”

“I’ve… grown rather fond of them recently,” also Theodosia liked them, from when she was _eight years old and curled up, toasty and warm beneath her mother’s arm and the kind of hot-chocolate that had to be made using a saucepan and hot milk clutched in her hands._

Angelica rolls her eyes, “I never took you as the kind to ‘do as the romans do’, plus, I thought you were too obsessed with France to give in to the Brit’s ‘evil clutches’,” she says, before settling on a rerun of ‘Father Ted’.

“Hypocrite.”

She shakes her head, “Wouldn’t you rather watch funny British people as opposed to sad ones?”

He sighs and concedes, not that he has a choice. He would rather be watching the antics of Irish priests as opposed to working class trials-and-tribulations any day, Besides, this will probably help take his mind of that article anyway. He doesn’t know why it bothered him so much, stuff like that happened all the time. Usually he could care less.

Maybe it had something to do with the intense feelings of _drowning, drowning, choking, was that Ned? Ned? Ned!? NED!?_

He takes a deep breath - because whatever the fuck that is he does _not_ need it ruining his Friday evening.

But then _Ben is looking at him and asking him about his meds because what is wrong with you-_   _and the lights in the hospital are so fucking bright and the doctors are so fucking loud and- the water’s everywhere, crashing and crushing, everywhere that Ned’s not. The Duffel is gripped loosely in his hands, and he can’t let go, can’t let go, can’t let g- “_ Thomas let go!”

And then Thomas realises he’s holding Angelica’s arm in a death grip, her eyes are wide and her expression vaguely panicked.

He lets go.

She rubs her wrist, looks at him like he killed her mother, her sisters, and her childhood goldfish all in one and right in front of her. She’s shaking, ever so slightly, and then he remembers about John Church.

“Shit, Ange… I’m sorry, I-I don’t know what happened…” he stammers.

She closes her eyes, he can see her counting in her head, trying to stay calm, trying to forget about _him_.

“Ange…”

After a while, “It’s okay,” she says, opens her eyes, and gives him a smile so fragile the slightest knock would break his heart along with it, “I’m okay.”

“Do you want me to make you some hot tea?” he asks, knows that this probably the most he can do for her right now.

She nods.

“Okay, I’ll go do that. Should I tell Mads to steer clear for the time being?”

Another nod.

He gets up, glances back, “I’m sorry Ange, for...for everything.”

“It’s not your fault my ex was an asshole.”

Asshole is… not as descriptive of a word as Thomas would’ve used, but it’s her life, she’s the one who has to deal with it.

One last look, just to check she’s okay, before he heads back into the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

 

“Alex open your eyes, it’s me, it’s Ned, your okay-” if he’s okay, why is Ned’s voice so strained? Alex doesn’t believe him, but now he knows his eyes are shut, knows that he’s cold because there’s water everywhere knows that his head is above water- and oh god his head is above water, he can breathe. He gulps big mouthfuls of air, his brain twitches, and spasms, purple and yellow and green pixels dance in the darkness. Mouthfuls of hot salty air, of cold salty air that floods and

“Alex! You gotta stay upright man I can’t- agh!” And oh, the water is moving and rushing, battering around him. It’s not air, not air anymore. Scrambles. Finds his feet find purchase. Air is air again. Doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know why. Knows Ned sounds like he’s in pain.

And Ned is in pain.

He remembers he has arms. He lunges forward. Fingertips glance against skin, wet skin, cold skin, skin that’s oddly slick, skin that’s covered in a liquid that’s getting hotter the more he moves his hands, puckered skin, skin that envelops an object that is. not. Skin.

Bright light- so white so white so white-

Vision fuzzes-

Vision clears-

Red.

  
Ned Stevens has a meter of pipe sticking out of his torso.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I know nothing about boxing. Everything you see is fictional. If it’s not completely wrong, well… that’s an accident, I apologise from the bottom of my heart. 
> 
> Also, if anyone knows anything about boxing other than ‘they punch each other’ I would greatly appreciate any tips you have to offer! 
> 
> Also, thanks for the comments and kudos, it’s super appreciated =) I need validation to live =) =) =) (just kidding - I’d be doing this regardless, it’s fun and I have no life outside of procrastinating from revising for chemistry A-level)


	5. I Am Also A We - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza eats breakfast and makes a new friend.
> 
> She also cries in a convenience store.
> 
> Meanwhile, Laf makes plans, Theo waxes poetic about not liking men, and Alex pays Maria a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the tags on this one guys, some parts are pretty heavy. Also adding a tag for suicidal ideation, although it’s only briefly mentioned in this chapter, it will probably come up again because, y’know, Sense8.

Theodosia dreams of the sea.

She dreams of a woman, fallen.

She dreams of a man, alone and betrayed.

She dreams of others too; a woman lost in beats that seem abstract and strange but rhythmical at the same time and full of more love and passion than Theo can comprehend, a person in love with too many people (as if there could ever be too much love), a man who wears a costume and sings and sometimes accidently hurts those he loves when he doesn’t focus on what he should, a man in hiding, again because of love.

There are more men in Theo’s dreams than her current disposition is particularly happy with.

It doesn’t matter though, because she’s working on staying calm, on staying focused, on staying centred. She has to go back to work, _has to,_ it isn’t an option, despite what Jacques seems to think.

He’d been happy, too happy, when she’d told him of her suspension. Something which had made her decidedly _un_ happy.

Jacques doesn’t seem to have any of the same problems as the people in her dreams. He thinks he does, but he doesn’t. You have to _have_ love, she thinks, for it to cause problems.

Theo doesn’t seem to have any love either.

It doesn’t matter though, because she is quite content to think of the beautiful bald man with a heart as quiet as she’s ever heard in the meantime.

Just because it isn’t there now, doesn’t mean it won’t be there in the future.

For now, she can wait.

It helps that she’s going back to work tomorrow, regardless of who complains.

* * *

 

Eliza wakes up to a thin slither of sunlight slicing through the middle of the bed in Peggy’s spare room. It leaves a hot line, and sensation that starts slightly left of centre on her forehead and slices down the length of her body. She groans, rolls out of its way, and presses her aching face into the cool patch of pillow on the shaded right side of the bed. She takes a few seconds to process the pounding in her head and the progressively worsening nausea in her guts, before releasing the proverbial floodgates on the night before.

At least, the parts of it in which she was sober enough to keep her memory for.

There’d been music, alcohol, _so much alcohol_ , and the woman… Eliza remembers watching, the crowd of eager strangers completely unaware of her presence as she stood enraptured, as the woman with fiery hair and an even fierier expression dealt blow after fierce blow to her opponent.

And then everything had gone wrong.

Not just for the woman, who Eliza remembers getting very little from aside from a disturbing feeling of placidity, but for the man in the church who’d left so suddenly and whose frenzied screams and overwhelming terror are still rattling round her head, for what Eliza is assuming are others like… them, she’s not sure, just that she’s feeling shocked and betrayed and guilty and none of it’s coming from her.

It kind of reminds her of the panic attacks she struggled with throughout her teen-years, before she’d found the music and a therapist who knew what he was doing. They didn’t feel as if they were coming from her, often striking without explanation or warning, leaving her incapacitated for what often seemed like no reason at all. The feelings may not be her own, but that doesn’t mean they don’t hurt, and it doesn’t mean her heart aches any less for the people at their source.

Today, she thinks, might be better. But already there is only numbness, and that’s one feeling Eliza doesn’t know how to combat, because really, who are you fighting if you’re fighting nothing?

And then her alarm blares in her ear before she can confuse herself _too much_ with feelings or the lack thereof, and she figures she should probably get up.

She showers, decides that she’s probably better off wearing a fresh pair of jeans as opposed to the pair she inadvertently slept in, and grabs a pair from the drawer of her things that she keeps at Peggy’s for moments like this, along with a tank top.

She finds Peggy in the kitchen, her sister is ensconced in a fluffy yellow dressing grown and humming softly to herself over the sound of sizzling eggs on the stove top. Overall, Eliza is of the opinion that she looks far too cheerful for someone who drank as much as Peggy did last night, which is probably because Peggy doesn’t get hangovers, because Peggy is a lucky bitch.

Peggy chooses that moment to look up from the sizzling pan in front of her, a cocky smirk spreading over her face as she spots her sister, “Tylenol’s in the medicine cabinet Lizzy dearest,”.

Eliza allows her head to gently smack backwards against the wall behind her in response.

“What’s wrong? Regretting last night?” Peggy taunts.

Eliza scowls, before taking a seat at the breakfast bar and plucking an apple from the fruit bowl. She contemplates it for a second, before her stomach roils in protest, and she carefully puts it down, “I hate you.” she says.

“Me or the apple?” Peggy replies in between tipping the eggs onto a pair of plates and setting one down in front of Eliza along with a knife and fork.

“Both,” Eliza decides, prodding tentatively at the food in front of her.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, Peggy scarfing hers down as if she hasn’t eaten in a week and just consumed a large quantity of marijuana, and Eliza picking at hers as if she has a hangover, which she does.

“Hey,” Peggy says after she’s finished, pushing her plate to the side, “Did you hear about Angelica’s old law professor, from Princeton?”

Eliza looks up, the pang of curiosity a good enough excuse to abandon her attempt at eating breakfast as any, “No,” she says, “Why?”

“Turns out he was a pedo all along,” Peggy says conversationally, “Trust Angie to get saddled with the creepy teacher in one of the, like, _five_ non-performing arts courses she took.”

Something about this whole thing doesn’t sit right with Eliza though, and she wrings her hands beneath the counter. Peggy, astute as ever, catches her in the act, and plucks her phone out her pocket. She taps the screen and gets up an article, before sliding it over to Eliza.

Eliza reads, the article seeming like a typical journalistic narrative involving the abuse of power by people in high places. Most of the time these things are true, _more_ than true, and she knows that. But then she sees the picture, and she knows that this one isn’t.

She recognises him, she isn’t sure from where, but she _recognises him_.

And then she’s _sitting next to a man in a waiting room. This must be another person like_ them _she thinks._

_He looks devastated, he is devastated, she can feel it as if the feeling is her own. He stares blankly at the wall, or rather, at a watercolour painting of some flowers and a field._

_She moves slowly when she places a hand on his arm, as if approaching an injured animal._

_He tenses, then ignores her._

_“You don’t think I’m real, do you?” she says quietly._

_He continues to stare at the wall._

_“That’s okay,” she says, “I understand that you’re going through a tough time right now,” how she knows this she isn’t sure, she just does, “So just know that I’m here for you, even if you don’t think I exist.”_

_At this he turns, ever so slightly, to meet her eye. She makes sure she greets him with a smile._

_“Thank you…” he says, uncertain._

_“You’re welcome.”_

“HEY LIZA!” Peggy yells, drawing Eliza back into the kitchen with a short sharp shock.

 Eliza blinks a few times, mildly disoriented, before focusing on Peggy, “Yes Pegs?”

“I was just saying, I really need to get ready for work now, so you need to ring Angie, check that she’s okay and all that jazz.” Peggy says.

“Sure,” Eliza replies, mind still stuck on the man in waiting room, and the article. ‘George Washington’ it’d said his name was.

Peggy gives her a look, before disappearing into the bathroom, presumably to shower.

Eliza sighs, stands, and takes her plate to the sink, hoping that the repetitive motion of washing some dishes will help her clear her head.

* * *

The sound of Adrienne humming quietly to herself in the shower stops at the same time Laf turns the camera off. It’s a coincidence, but it still makes Laf feel strange, like they’re hiding something from her. She’ll see it anyway, they reason in an attempt to shift the rapidly settling feeling of ugliness in their gut, it doesn’t matter which of their three channels they post it on, she’ll see it.

It’s nice that that’s the case, nice to have a partner who cares as much as Adrienne does. Honestly, Laf isn’t sure where they’d be now if they’d never met her. Certainly not recording a video to upload for over a hundred thousand people to see.

They load it up in the video editor. It takes a few seconds, but when it’s there, it’s there. They shift their position on Adrienne’s bed so that their back is flush against the headboard and the sun is out of their eyes, and then they’re ready to begin cutting all of their inelegant blubbering from the clip.

They pause, run their fingers through their hair. Admit that, to be honest, they’re a little worried about this one.

It’s not that they don’t trust their subscribers, because they do, unequivocally. This video’s a little different to their usual stuff though. It’s not about lgbt+ issues, it’s not particularly personal, and it’s not particularly fun either, no, it’s a call for their subscribers to donate to the red cross following a natural disaster.

Laf reasons it has something to do with the strange little man they keep seeing in their dreams. Well, they’ve seen him twice now, once a couple of nights ago, and again last night. Last night, before Laf had even seen the news, when they’d dreamt of a man facing down a wall of water as tall as himself… shivers run up Laf’s arms, and they hug themselves. Something strange is going on, and Laf doesn’t know what or why or how, just that it is, and that they’re not happy about it.

They turn back to the video, are about to _actually_ start editing, when Adrienne appears at the doorway, hair wet and pouring rivulets of water down her arms, body wrapped in a fluffy pink towel.

“Did you record a video whilst I was in the shower?” She asks, before padding across the floor to the wardrobe and pulling out a pair of shorts and a top.

“Yes, I did, it is… not my usual fare though.” Laf sets the computer to the side, accepting that they’re not going to be doing much whilst Adrienne is around.

She finishes changing and then comes over to where Laf is sat on the bed. The mattress depresses beneath her slight frame as she wraps her arms around their shoulders and buries her head below their neck.

It only takes a moment for Laf to realise that her hair is still soaking wet, and henceforth has left a sizeable wet patch in their shirt, “Adrienne!” they complain loudly, and attempt to jerk away, “you’re making my shirt wet!”

She laughs, and clings on tighter before Laf gives in and settles down for the long haul.

After a moment, she asks, “Are you still okay for dinner with my parents this evening?”

They nod, and she plants a chaste kiss on their cheek, “Thank you, it really does mean a lot to me.”

Laf nods, “I know, and I am happy to meet with your parents anyway, Mr. and Mrs. Noailles are delightful, as are you, my dearest,” the two share a smile.

“I think I know who else is delightful as well,” she draws away somewhat to look Laf in the eye, a cheeky expression quirking the edge of her lip upwards. This, in combination with her cropped red hair and smattering of freckles, means that Laf can’t help but think that she currently looks like an actual pixie at the moment, a thought that distracts them from the somewhat more pressing issue of-

“That man you keep talking to over Skype.”

Laf’s heart lurches. They’re in trouble, aren’t they? Adrienne is unhappy that they are becoming close with another, “You mean Hercules?” they say, interrupting their own train of thought.  

“I mean,” she clears her throat, preparing for something, before launching into what seems like it is supposed to be a Laf impression, “‘Oh Herc’, you talented, wonderful human!’”

“Oh,” Laf says, “You heard that?”

“Yes, I did,” she sees Laf’s stricken look, and quickly changes her tact, “I don’t mind though! I am not so insecure as to deny your friendship with another, or even, if you wanted something more, I would not be… opposed to it…”

Laf gently runs a thumb along her cheekbone, captures her eyes in theirs, “You are sure about this?” they say, “I would not wish for you to be... resentful, or to feel as if I have abandoned you.”

“Of course I’m sure, I just want you to be happy,”

“I’m happy with you,” Laf argues.

“Would you not also be happy with me and Hercules?” she has moved closer to them again, wriggled until her small body is flush against Laf’s side.

“I suppose… only if it ever came up though,” Laf wraps their arm tight around her shoulders, “I do not wish to pursue him.”

“Just know that it’s okay with me whatever you do,” she says, before slipping out from their embrace, “I have to go and finish my report for work, I shall see you in a bit.”

Laf nods, feeling distinctly chillier with her absence, “I shall see you in a bit,” they repeat, before turning back to editing, mind occupied once more by the strangeness of the past couple of weeks, and their unusual desire to support foreign aid.

* * *

  
Ned dies in the morning, and suddenly all Alex can feel is hot sun and black-brown blood in his hair.

Not just on his hair. On his face, on his arms, washing off his legs and into the brown water that rushes back the way it came. Back, back towards the sea, bodies and the wrecks of the places they once lived. At one point, the body of a boy, a tourist dressed in a green shirt with bloated white skin, had slammed into his legs, sending rockets of pain shooting up through the left one and nearly knocking him from where Ned had managed to lodge them atop a tree that had fallen against the post office.

Ned is dead, and Alex wishes the sea would just take them both with it.

He does consider it, allowing Ned to be washed back with the swell that took him, but the flow is slower now, and Ned would be too heavy. He’d just swell, skin would turn pale and bloated like the boy’s. It’s best to preserve the corpse, Alex thinks, allow Mr. Stevens a proper burial. He wonders if Mr. Stevens will let him keep his job knowing that Ned died on Alex’s watch. He knows he won’t be able to look him in the eye if he does.

He doesn’t look at Ned, hasn’t looked at him since he’d said “Alex, please…. Could-could you hold me… when I die?”

Alex had done as he asked, couldn’t look at him though, worried that he wouldn’t see Ned, that he’d see his mother, or even his cousin. Alex knows the embrace of the dead well by now, what a body feels like as it cools and goes stiff.

He knows he should let go, that it’s odd to sit on a fallen tree with a dead body in your arms, but… well, Alex has only just realised he’s still holding him. And now? Now it’s just too awkward to let go.

It’s too awkward an hour later, when the helicopters from the red cross start flying overhead.

It’s too awkward three hours later, when the water level has lowered enough for people, lots of people, to filter onto the streets, begin picking their way towards the hospital, towards higher ground where there is less water and less death.

Ned’s skin is still rubbery against Alex’s fingers when the sun begins to dip back down beneath the sea, when the island cools, and the water cools, and Alex feels himself begin to cool. He’s been here a long time, knows that he is tired and thirsty and hungry, knows that his leg hurts, knows that it’s probably broken, badly, if the way it’s torn through the skin is any indicator.

This, he reasons, is why he’s not moved. He probably wouldn’t be able to get anywhere if he did.

It’s harder to explain when the light from a volunteer’s torch flashes at the end of the street, and he still doesn’t move, doesn’t call for help.

 They find him eventually, he thinks he screams when they pull him away from Ned and load him into their dinghy, he isn’t sure though. They let him keep the duffel, but he guesses that’s because it’s small and his hand is clamped so tight around the handle that he isn’t sure if he’d be able to let it go if he wanted to.

He doesn’t want to though- _“Alex, protect this with your life”_ rattles round and round his head as he is wrapped in scratchy blankets and shifted into a position where his leg stretches out in front of him.

The volunteers ask him questions, he doesn’t answer, the words stick somewhere in the space between his brain and his mouth.

One of them holds his hand, but the others don’t seem to pay her any attention.

And then they’re on the land, and there are lights and people and _oh, this is the hospital_. There’s screaming and crying and so much _noise and-_

And then there’s a face that Alex recognises, and he’s screaming, and all Alex can see is red, and all he can hear is ‘ _Alex hold me whilst I die’_ and all he can feel is slick and red and cold and rubbery and-

A doctor is shouting and he’s on a gurney and the gurney is turning red beneath his leg, but slowly, too slowly, and there are words like _‘O neg’_ and ‘ _shock’_ and maybe Alex is hurt worse than he thought. And then he’s thinking about the last time he was in a hospital, and the last time doctors had shouted, but that had been ‘ _Cardiac arrest’_ and _‘Multiple Organ Dysfunction Syndrome’_ and they hadn’t shouted, they’d whispered, and ten minutes later his mother had been dead.

He flails, weak like a kitten, grabs the sleeve of the doctor during what seems like a lull.

“ _Let me die_ ” he hears himself saying, she doesn’t stop, but she doesn’t shake her head either.

Alex isn’t really sure what happens next, he isn’t there, he’s somewhere else.

A woman in a hospital bed, a gown, an ocean of white against which she is alive with colour. She looks at him, her brow furrows, her lips part silently.

He’s sitting cross legged at the foot of her bed, and this hospital isn’t filled with blood and death and screaming, although in a way it is, he supposes. Just because you can’t see it or hear it doesn’t mean it’s not there.

He reaches for her hand, she lets him take it. He’s gentle, but still curious about the tube disappearing under her skin.

She doesn’t look sick or hurt, just tired. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there, he reminds himself.

“Are you okay?” his lips say, because they aren’t sure what else to say.

“No…” the woman whispers, her voice dry and cracking around the edges, “Are you?”

And then he realises he’s shaking, and he looks at her with wide eyes as he says “No.”

She looks like she’s about to cry, although he really hopes she doesn’t because if she starts crying then he just _knows_ that he’s going to start too, and he doesn’t _deserve_ to cry after what happened to Ned.... and oh god, _Ned is dead_ hits him in the chest like a thousand-pound freight train.

But then everything’s okay, because she pulls him into her side where everything is safe and warm, and they both silently cry until they fall asleep.

* * *

Eliza wipes a tear from her eye as she peruses the magazine section of the convenience store around the corner from her apartment. The crying in a public place thing probably has something to do with the _visitors_ , she thinks, or rather, hopes. At least it feels like a good tear, as far as she can tell, anyway.

She shivers as the door to the store slides open, the light summer breeze sending a cascade of goose bumps along her arms. She ignores it, instead fixes her attention on steadfastly ignoring the terrible pop-ballad playing over the store sound system whilst looking for _something._

Of course, she hadn’t made the trip there to search for the answers to all her problems in a magazine rack, that was what the internet was for after all. No, she’d come to pick up some of Peggy’s favourite vitamin water, this store being the only one for about ten miles to stock her sister’s favourite brand oddly enough.

The ‘searching for answers’ part had come afterwards.

Her eyes fall across a glossy purple magazine, sticking at an angle, the word ‘psychic’ just about visible in bright yellow font. It looks different to the rest, meaning it must be a sign, right? She glances around her, whatever for she’s not sure, before reaching forwards and carefully sliding it from the rack.

A hand grabs her wrist, and Eliza goes with the hours of advice from Angelica to ‘aim straight for the nuts’.

But then there’s no hand, and the man is on her other side with a finger to his lips. He looks familiar… wait! He’s the man, the one who’s wanted by-

“You know I didn’t do it, you’re a smart girl Eliza.” he says, voice rich and smooth, comforting, almost, after the week she’s had.

She chooses to listen, not speak. He smiles.

“Follow me,” he says, “I can tell you everything you want to know.”

She does.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… yeah. Wasn’t too sure about this one guys =/ Definitely going to have more of Theo and some of John at least in the next chapter, although they were kind of being like Sun and Capheus who don’t appear in ep. 2 (at least not to the best of my knowledge) because their plotlines pick up later on. Also I kind of wanted to do more Eliza, but I think I ended it at quite a good point, and when I came to it I just decided it’d be something best left to the next chapter, despite the fact that Jonas does talk to Will in episode 2 of Sense8. But whatevs! I’m not sticking to that plot anyway! Just.. key moments, I guess? And some thematic similarities too.


	6. Smart Money Is on the Skinny Bitch - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza makes some bad choices and finds out some stuff.
> 
> She also contemplates the crime rate.
> 
> Meanwhile, Theo’s language is charming as ever, Aaron gets to ride in an ambulance, and Maria disrespects the ‘sacred institution of marriage’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This one was a toughie to get out =P I’ve just been super tired this week, but it’s all good now. Anyway, this one’s got some stuff in it that some people might find triggering, so I’m going to put content warnings at the bottom because I’m wary of cluttering up the general tags. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

 Eliza’s a moron, a fact that she’s only just beginning to realise as she follows this strange, large, _wanted by the FBI_ man down a dark alley.   

Has Angelica taught her _nothing?_

Apparently not, because now she’s placidly following him towards a black sedan parked rather ominously down said dark alley, and every single cliché she’s ever heard is telling her to make a run or it. She doesn’t, she should, but she doesn’t, because she trusts him. She doesn’t know why, what, or how, but something in her gut is telling her that this is okay. That he won’t hurt her, that this is a person worthy of her trust.

Eliza’s never been the type to ignore her gut feelings, and she’s not about to start now, despite how odd her feelings in general have been recently.

The man opens the passenger side door for her, gestures for her to enter. She hesitates, the streetlamp overhead casting the pavement around the man’s rather fancy boat-shoes in a circle of gold. Dimly, she remembers hearing somewhere that most crime happens beneath streetlights. It’s too late now though, because she’s slipping into the car and sinking deep into the luxurious leather seats, wondering how on Earth this man is a fugitive when he has such a nice car.

He closes the door behind her, walks around the back of the car and gets into the driver’s seat. Another door slam. He turns the key in the ignition, puts the car in gear, places his hand on the hand brake, turns to Eliza.

“Seatbelt.” he says, and the suddenness of this proclamation make her jump a little.

 She pulls the nylon band across her chest, clicks it into the buckle at her side. The man takes this as his cue to pull out, Eliza watches as the alleyway melts into a busy road.

They drive for a while, the clean but chemical scent of the pine air freshener not quite managing to mask the unmistakeable new car smell. It’s probably stolen, she realises, the man had probably just gone to a dealership and driven the vehicle right out of the showroom, or whatever it was people did when they were stealing cars. She finds that she doesn’t really mind though - after all, there’s heated seats, and if that isn’t worth a bit of theft, then she doesn’t know what is.

She relaxes, something about this man’s presence just seems to be leeching the stress and the tension and the confusion of the past few days right out of her. Her subconscious unhelpfully reminds her of Mr. Tumnus and all the related creepiness of following a strange man into a strange location and then being lulled to sleep.

She thinks, perhaps, that this particular man would be planning to do something worse than hand her over to The Snow Queen.

Suddenly alert, she sits a little straighter, turns slightly, brushes a strand of hair that’s escaped her somewhat dishevelled ponytail behind her ear. She notices her breath, how fast it’s gotten. Slowly, deliberately, she calms it, in for four, out for four, repeat.

He notices, which she notices because she sees his eyes dart away from the road for a moment in the car mirror.

The silence stretches, and then, “Where are we going?” she says

“Where do you _want_ to go?” he responds, unfazed, but leaving Eliza more confused than before.

“Back to the store,” she says after a few seconds, “I still need to get Peggy’s water.”

He nods, oddly solemn for such a mundane statement, and then, “After that, then. Do you need a lift home?”

She hesitates, he’s proven himself not to be a murderer thus far, but again, he’s a fugitive, and a paedophile apparently. In the end, she nods.

“Okay, I can do that. Firstly though, we need to talk.”

Eliza worries the bottom of her lip with her teeth. This is the part she’s been waiting for, the explanation, the ending of the confusion. In the sky above, the stars twinkle. She remembers Peggy coming home from that one college physics lesson she took and gushing about how the reason stars twinkle is because of distortion from the atmosphere.

Eliza wonders if she’s been looking at the world through a different kind of atmosphere the whole time, wonders what it’ll look like when it’s gone, “Are you going to tell me what’s been going on?”

His expression is rueful “I’m sure you’ve been very confused.” he says, “which is understandable. Many sensates are convinced they’re losing their minds at first, after all, when you start seeing people that aren’t there, start hearing voices, visiting places, we don’t call it a new experience, we call it psychosis, give you a bottle of meds, and send you on your way.”

Eliza thinks of a man sat alone in a waiting room, ignoring the world around him, trying to appear normal.

“Of course,” he continues, “there are sensates who do struggle with psychosis, but,” he pauses, indicates left, turns the car onto a quieter road, some kind of residential estate, “not at any higher rate than the rest of the population.”

He seems to be waiting for her to respond, but she isn’t sure how to, she asks a question, “So… what exactly are sensates?”

There’s a glint in his eye, something like excitement, “Sensates are people like us. The people you’ve been seeing, the sounds you’ve been hearing, the feeling of snow in the middle of summer or blinding pain when you are lying safe in your bed - they have a source.”

“I’m not going mad.” She says, although it was something she already knew.

He shakes his head, “No, you’re not. Your mind, it’s expanding,” he looks swept up for a moment, lost in some memory untouchable by Eliza, “Martha, the woman who birthed you all, she always said that it was like she could see eight times more clearly.”

“She sounds like a wonderful person,” Eliza says, “I’m glad I got to meet her.”

“Me too,” the man says.

Eliza stares out of the window, choosing to give him a moment.

When he talks again, he says, “There’s something you need to do.”

Eliza turns to face him once more, “What?”

“There’s a woman, Maria Lewis. She’s one of us and she’s in danger, from the same people who killed Martha. You can help her.”

“How?” she asks.

A few seconds, and then, he’s shaking his head, a panicked look appearing over his face. He pulls over suddenly, breaks hard enough for Eliza to be flung forwards.

“You need to go.” he says.

Eliza blinks confused, he shakes his head as if to clear it, “No, never mind,” he says, “you just have to _open your mind”_

And then he’s gone.

Or rather, the car is gone and her surroundings are gone, and she’s standing back in the store, a bottle of vitamin water clutched in her sweating palms. The air conditioning ruffles her hair, and she can’t help the slack-jawed expression that creeps onto her face.

“Hey _Miss_ , are you alright?”

The store clerk, Eliza registers in her periphery.

It’s an effort, but she nods numbly, walks over to the counter. It feels like she left her body back in the car with the man - ‘George Washington’, a poster with his face on it tells her.

She pays, she leaves, she tries to forget that the whole thing even happened in the first place.

It doesn’t work.

* * *

Theo’s heart pumps, fast, faster than she’d like.

Faster than the one belonging to the guy currently bleeding to death in the back of her rig.

She’s driving, Adams is in the back, desperately working to keep the man alive long enough to get to hospital. It doesn’t look good. He was dead long before they arrived, soon what little blood he had left in his veins would be as sticky and thick as the stuff covering their hands is right now.

It’s a depressing thought, but really, being shot full of holes and then left alone in a pool of your own blood for over an hour is a depressing situation. Depressing, but routine, so why is she so stressed?  

Oh, wait, maybe it has something to do with the man sat next to her firmly insisting that she isn’t real.

“You’re not, none of this is,” he insists, agitated, running his hands over his bald scalp that shines dully beneath the grey tendrils of early morning slithering across the sky.

She sighs as she hits a wall of traffic - pushes away the irritation and incredulity that bubbles in her chest. For Christ’s sake though, even for Manchester, this is ludicrous. She slows down, some of the more alert drivers pull out of the way at the sound of the siren, those that don’t are subjected to the loud honking of the others’ horns.

The man next to her fidgets some more, unable to keep still, “Not real, none of this is real, not real-”

Theo swears loudly, “If you’re so insistent on my lack of existence,” she proclaims, “why do you keep telling me about it? The way I see it, there’s not much of a point talking to something that can’t hear you.”

He gives her a look that suggests he thinks the answer to her question is obvious, “I can’t just wait for you to go away, Dr. Livingston says I have to talk back to you, or rather, my subconscious,” he sighs, rubs his hands over his scalp again, “Dr. Montgomery says that I’ll be fine if I just remember to take my meds when I’m supposed to.”

Theo frowns, “Maybe you should go do those things instead of hanging around in my rig where you’re not wanted?”

He scowls in response, “If I could, I would, believe me. I don’t particularly enjoy being subjected to weird British women shouting at me. Or any of the other stuff.”

“‘ _Weird British Women?’_ ” Theo says, and she can see her knuckles blanching with anger.

“Well you have the accent.” He replies, momentarily distracted from his apparent fidgetiness for a moment.

And then an old woman steps out onto the road.

“Fuck!” Theo yells, too loud, as she slams her foot onto the break, following it shortly after with the clutch because she’ll be damned if she’s going to let one stupid old bat make her stall.

“For fuck’s sake Theo,” Adams yell from the back, “Watch your language!”

“Same to you, you fat prick!” she cuts back, turning briefly over her shoulder to yell at him whilst the old woman does a panic-shuffle back to the pavement.

“Love you too Theodosia-dearest” He comments sarcastically, but Theo doesn’t pay any mind, because all she cares about right now is the fact that the man who was just sat next to her, is gone.

“Ugh, I really am losing it,” she groans into the steering wheel, before starting the ambulance back on its collision course with Manchester A&E.

* * *

 

Aaron groans, leans forward, presses his face into his hands. Why? Why does this keep happening? It’s worse than last time- it’s not _just_ voices, not _just_ an unshakable belief that he and he alone can lead the floor to freedom, not _just_ being convinced that the strange sensation in his head following excessive ice cream consumption is actually a symptom of being poisoned by the CIA.

No, this time it’s actual people, and sounds, and just now, the inside of an ambulance. Something’s wrong, he knows it is, more wrong than ‘short-term psychotic disorder, you’ll be fine within a month, don’t worry.’. It’s not the same kind of wrong, either. Whatever this is, he doesn’t think it’s related to the somewhat tenuous state of his mental health.

He stops himself.

He can’t think like that, thinking like that leads non-compliance with medication which in turn leads to properly not being able to distinguish reality from fiction, which leads to harassing strangers in the corridor or worse. He needs a break, so he sets his laptop to the side and stands, leaving the bed in his dorm room behind him. Picking up a coat from where he discarded it last night after being convinced it was soaked in blood (blood being an oddly common hallucination this time round), he heads towards the door and unlocks it.

Just a quick walk, to clear his head of the lingering images of sirens and angry women.

Angry women who are waiting for him outside his door.

Stock still, feet frozen to the worryingly crusty carpet. Slow steps as he peers, awkwardly, at her existence. She raises an eyebrow, takes the cigarette hanging from her lower lip and stubs it out on the wall behind them.

Aaron’s eyes widen, “You can’t do that!” he exclaims loudly.

“Why not?” is her simple response, “it won’t do anything. Fucking council doesn’t give a shit about this bloody place.”

Aaron peers at the wall behind her, and sure enough, the yellow wallpaper behind her is happily unmarked. He breathes a sigh of relief. And then narrows his brow in confusion, “Wait, what? This building isn’t owned by, well, anyone other than the university.”

“Isn’t it?” she asks, and suddenly the burgundy carpet beneath his feet is grey concrete, and the walls are a pink sky melting into grey.

A sign near the front of what seems to be a car park proclaims in blue lettering that he’s at ‘Manchester North General Hospital’, and he is completely lost.

“Oh no…” he groans, staggers away from where she’s casually leant against a brown-brick wall.

“You still think I’m not real?” she stands up properly before heading towards a bin and flicking the cigarette inside, “‘Cause from where I’m standing, you’re the one that keeps disappearing and reappearing out of nowhere.”

He’s not sure, which is the problem. And really, this is a very _detailed_ hallucination if it is one.

“Okay,” he admits eventually, “I’m… not sure, not anymore.”

At that, she grins and approaches him, claps him on the shoulder in a gesture that seems far to masculine for someone who can’t be taller than five-one, “Good,” she says, “because neither am I.”

He shrugs out from where her hand is resting on him, skin tingling slightly from the contact, “You know, ‘I’m not sure’ doesn’t mean I haven’t ruled all of this out as an extremely vivid hallucination yet. When I went to group, there was this one guy who kept thinking we were all sitting around in the frozen food section of the nearby Walmart. It was a good thing his sister dropped him off.”

She lets her arm drop back to her side, and then abruptly shoves her hands into the pockets of her jeans. She’s changed out of the uniform she was wearing earlier, he notes, probably due to the blood stains. “Whatever, I honestly don’t really care if you think I’m really or not. Something weird’s going on, and it’s up to you if you help me figure out what it is or not.”

Something in her pocket buzzes, and she slips out a battered old Nokia, checks the screen with a frown. It’s as if her posture disintegrates upon seeing what Aaron assumes to have been a text, and she shoots him a wry smile, “Looks like I gotta go. See you round Baldy-locks.”

She waves, walks off, disappears into a car with a man. Aaron watches as he says something to her, and she replies, displeasure clear on her face. They continue, and Aaron watches them argue until they pull away, and leave him, suddenly back in the corridor.

He’s sat down, he notices, and there’s someone with him.

 _Ben_ , his mind supplies.

“Hey, Aaron,” he says, “you with me?”

Aaron nods, slightly disoriented by the sudden change in scenery. Ben makes a noise that sounds like it’s caught somewhere between relief and hysteria, and Aaron shoots him a look of concern, “Why?” he says, “What happened?”

“You totally spaced man, I came back and you were just standing there, I got you to sit down in case you fell and hurt yourself.” Ben explains.

“Oh.” Aaron replies, mind whirring at a hundred miles per hour. This was bad, if this kept happening, then something could happen - what if it happened when he was riding his bike, or crossing the road?

Ben interrupts his train of thought, “Is this a…a, this is going to sound really awkward, but I’m just gonna come out and say it, is this a symptom?”

Their eyes meet, and Aaron’s whole body feels as if it’s coiling up, hiding from the uncertainty of it all, “I… I’m really not sure.”

“You gonna talk to Dr. L about it?”

Aaron nods.

“Good,” Ben replies, before moving swiftly on, “now c’mon, let’s get you inside, before someone comes along and decides they want to join in with your little floor party.”

He offers him a hand, and Aaron takes it, standing up and following Ben inside, all thoughts of his walk forgotten.

* * *

 

Maria awakens slowly.

At first, she lives in a world of pure sensation; the scent of disinfectant, the coolness of a fan over the flesh of her face, the feeling of rough cotton against her skin, the sound of voices, of beeping, the dry taste of air that is filled with only tension.

Blackness fades to dark grey fades to light grey fades to white. White, bright and intense, burning orange hot imprints on the back of her retina in the shape of twisting fluorescent tubes and- oh, that makes sense. She moves her gaze away from the light bulb, focuses on the room around her.

She immediately wishes she hadn’t.

“James?!” she hisses with a throat that feels like sandpaper, the fact that she’s in a bed, in a hospital, strapped to numerous wires and machines only coming up as a small blip on her radar in comparison to the… the…the _creature_ in front of her, “what the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

He feigns sadness, leans forward in the plastic chair by her bed and gently holds the hand lying next to her on the bed. It burns, his touch _burns_ , and she just wants to scream and snatch her hand away, but then she notices the IV sticking out of it and knows that accidentally tearing that thing out would hurt like a bitch. Instead, she settles for digging her, admittedly blunt, nails into the flesh of his arm.

He yelps and pulls away, “Maria, Maria, Maria, what on _Earth_ was that for? You don’t want me to call the nurse, do you? Tell her you’re violent and need to be sedated for your own safety?”

“I’m not playing your games anymore James, tell me what you’re here for or get out.” she demands, “And where’s Sally?”

He rolls his eyes and leans back, rests his pristine white sneakers on the bed and tilts the chair back onto its back two legs, “Sally went home sweet cheeks, only family allowed on this ward.”

“Sally _is_ my family, unlike you.” she spits.

He shrugs, “Not according to the law she’s not,” he allows the chair to tilt back, sets his feet firm on the floor, “and us? Well we’re married!”

He leans closer as he speaks, grabs the wrist that’s not attached to the IV and waves it in front of her face. She leans back to get a better view, her hammering heart and fuzzy feeling in her heat distracting her from the touch.

And then she sees it - a golden band lightly encircling her ring finger.

“What the…”

“Oh, don’t look so surprised!” he exclaims loudly, releasing her, and leaving pins and needles rippling over the surface of her skin in the shape of a hand, “After all, we never got divorced - you just _fucked_ your way across the country!”

“No…” she shakes her head, or at least she thinks she does, she isn’t sure. This body isn’t hers, it’s a puppet, a fleshy suit with a golden band around its finger and a million needles disappearing beneath its skin.

She raises her hand, observes the tape tear away, the needle slip out of the vein, blood drip down her arm.

She feels nothing.

Nails beneath the band, pulling, too-tight gold over skin, rough and inflammatory. There is a slight residue of slipperiness, not enough to be helpful, but enough to tell her they used Vaseline to get it on.

She scratches herself, flaps of skin stick beneath her nails. Her finger is red and raw, but it’s off. She doesn’t register the movement, just hears the soft tap as it hits the floor, realises she’s thrown it across the room.

And then she’s back, in her body, noticing the sound of James’s meaningless heckling.

Shortly after, it becomes words again - “you stupid _bitch_ , you don’t realise how lucky you are to have people that care about you-”

And that is _not_ something she can abide by, “Sally cares about me,” she snaps back, interrupting him, “you don’t, Sally does.”

He shakes his head, “Not for long she doesn’t.”

Maria scoffs, “Say whatever you like James, but Sally’s the only one who’s ever been there for me - not you, not my parents, Sally.”

“We’ll see how much she cares when you’re incontinent and delirious.” he says, not even sounding angry, just amused.

Maria is confused, “What are you talking about?”

It’s at that moment that a doctor, old with wrinkles etched into papery skin, pokes his head around the door, “Oh, Mrs. Reynolds, you’re awake!” he says with a grandfatherly smile.

“ _That_ is what I’m talking about,” James says sinisterly.

The Doctor doesn’t even notice, he just walks in, pulls up a chair. He meets her eye, and Maria can’t help but feel herself want to separate from her body again, “Mrs. Reynolds-”

“Miss Louis,” she says with too much venom, “I go by my maiden name.”

He nods, takes it in stride, keeps staring her down with unwavering eyes, “Miss Louis, then, I’m afraid I have some news about your condition. Have you ever heard of Undifferentiated Frontal Lobe syndrome?”

She shakes her head, slow.

The doctor looks regretful as he pulls up an image of a brain, some kind of CT scan type deal, on one of the monitors near the bed, “These,” he says, pointing to one of the regions of her brain, “are your frontal lobes,” he explains, “in a healthy brain, there is a distinct difference between the two. In your brain, they are growing closer together, and they won’t stop, even when they join.”

Maria feels tingling sensations shoot across every inch of available skin, she doesn’t even look at James, doesn’t care that he’s currently wearing a smug smirk, “what’s going to happen to me?” she asks, knowing that the answer will be too horrifying to contemplate.

“Well,” the doctor says, “It’s rare, but in the cases I’ve seen, the growth leads to synaesthesia, hallucinations, abnormal neurological activity such as the syncope you experienced at first, in later stages though? You could be looking at paralysis, coma, dementia, and eventually, death.”

“Oh.” is all Maria can say.

“The only known cure, and you’re not going to like this, is to lobotomise as soon as possible"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: This chapter contains descriptions of a character coming face to face with a past abuser and it’s not pretty. Their reaction involves some depersonalisation and accidental self-injury caused by the aforementioned depersonalisation. Some characters also use language that some people might find to be ableist, and there is the usual discussion of mental health issues.  
> Also, I absolutely adore writing Theo, but she doesn’t seem to like being written, which is why her sections are always so short. She just kinda shouts at me when she thinks I’ve been writing her pov for too long and it can be a tad stressful. 
> 
> Also I know nothing about how ambulances work outside of ‘sirens and 999’, so please feel free to point out any inaccuracies if you know better. The same goes for anything else you spot too - I live in the UK, so there’re doubtless some inaccuracies relating to that sort of thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading =)


End file.
